The Cowboy Way
by mollywebb200
Summary: Virgil's boots are made for walkin', pardner...if he can keep his balance, that is! :


**Author's Note:** This story was written for the recent "Fish Out of Water" challenge at the Tracy Island Writer's Forum.

**The Cowboy Way**

The sounds of ragtime piano music, laughter and loud voices poured over Virgil Tracy as he stood before the swinging saloon doors. He could see the crowd of people inside and as he set one hand against the weathered red doors, he hesitated.

"What have I got myself into?" he muttered, looking down at himself. He wore a white leather gunbelt slung low on his hips. There were two pearl handled pistols, smooth and shiny, in the holsters. The pair of ornately tooled cowboy boots on his feet made him feel like he was pitching forward. Not very long ago, he'd been persuaded by Gordon into watching an old western movie with him. They had both chuckled at the hero when he walked and now Virgil smiled. He'd have to remember to tell Gordon he had finally figured out why John Wayne walked the way he did. "Had to be the boots," he said as he held up one foot to inspect the silver spurs that jingled when he walked. At least the jeans were comfortable and the white, ten gallon hat he wore wasn't so bad.

"Here goes nothing," he murmured, surveying the rowdy crowd once more before straightening his shoulders, settling his hat on his head and pushing through the doors into the saloon.

The motley crew inside the saloon were whooping it up. A man in a striped shirt with the sleeves held up with elastic garters was playing a lively tune at the old upright piano over by the far wall. A derby was perched at a jaunty angle on his head as he sang to the accompaniment of the tinny music pouring from the instrument. Those nearest him were singing along enthusiastically…loudly and off key, but enthusiastically. Busty young women in heavy makeup and low-cut dresses with feathers in their upswept hair moved through the room serving large, foaming mugs to the customers. Poker games were in progress at many of the round tables, the players studying their cards, and the other players, just in case any cheating was going on. Ongoing arguments flared at some of these tables, loud voices calling the legitimacy of fellow players' ancestry into serious question. And above them all there was a smiling blonde in a red velvet dress sitting in a swing, suspended from the ceiling.

Virgil smiled at the girl, who winked back at him.

He looked around and saw a man wearing a red shirt at the bar. The man motioned to him, so Virgil began to wade through the duster and bandana clad crowd to the bar. The red shirted man had moved away by the time Virgil made it to the long wooden bar and the bartender had his back to him, placing clean mugs on the shelves in front of the mirror.

Turning around to Virgil, the barkeep barked, "What'll you have?"

Virgil started to answer but stopped, unable to help doing a double take. The man had the biggest handlebar mustache he'd ever seen. It was thick and turned up and waxed into circles at the ends. He stared in admiration and grinned.

"Wow," said Virgil.

The barkeeper's teeth gleamed whitely from the black brush of his mustache. He cleared his throat authoritatively, and looked serious as he stepped closer. Then he said in a loud voice, "We don't want any trouble, stranger. Just order your drink and let's not have any kind of ruckus."

The chatter immediately around Virgil stopped and he felt the silence began to spread across the room in a slow wave. Pretty soon all the customers in the saloon had quit talking and were turned in their seats, staring at him.

"I'm not sure exactly what I'm supposed to…" Virgil began, but was abruptly shoved by the man in the red shirt, who had reappeared beside him.

"Hey!" Virgil got out, before the man gave him another shove and spoke in a loud voice.

"Well lookee here boys! Looks like we got us another tinhorn lookin' to see if he can outdraw McGee!"

The crowd, obviously delighted, started hooting and catcalling. Like a deer in headlights, Virgil faced the roomful of people who were all looking at him expectantly.

"McGee…?" Virgil repeated.

The crowd once again grew silent, and like the parting of the Red Sea, they fell back to either side of the saloon to reveal a small table at the far wall. From the table a man rose. He wore a black hat, black shirt, black boots. Even his gunbelt was the same ebony shade. Nobody breathed as the man in black walked slowly across the room, his spurs jingling musically with each step. It wasn't a tune Virgil thought he liked.

When he reached the bar, the man drew the slim black cigarillo from his lips and blew smoke into Virgil's face.

"I'm McGee. I hear you're lookin' for me."

Virgil coughed, fighting down an insane desire to giggle. But then the man poked him in the chest with his index finger. Hard. Which kind of pissed him off.

"This town ain't big enough fer the two of us," the man in black said. "Let's see what you got."

And with that the whole crowd began to flow toward the saloon doors, sweeping Virgil with them.

Bodies spilled out onto the wooden sidewalk and a helpful fellow in a brocade vest and a gold watch chain across his paunch helpfully steered Virgil to the center of the street, where he was placed back to back with his opponent.

The man in the fancy vest then addressed the crowd.

"Now hear this. You two gentlemen will both take 10 paces away from each other and then turn around. When you're ready, draw. May the fastest gun win."

Virgil surveyed the grinning audience, shook his head and started walking to his end of the street as the crowd chanted the numbers in unison. At the count of ten, both he and the man in black stopped and turned to face each other. The crowd grew silent and Virgil placed his hands above the guns in the classic gunfighter position.

"Ok, Black Bart. Let's do it," he said, loudly enough to draw a snicker from someone in the crowd. Virgil spared him a glare.

He and McGee stared at each other. Virgil was just thinking he'd finally got the narrowed, snake-eyed stare just right, when McGee went for his guns in a blur of speed. He had fired before Virgil could even slap leather.

Virgil felt the sharp sting on his chest, slapping his hand instinctively over the spreading red stain. He stood there for a moment, swaying…and then caught the expectant eye of the man in the fancy vest, who was jerking his head sideways and looking meaningfully at the ground.

Virgil went down in a heap.

The crowd went wild, stomping and cheering and clapping. An announcer's voice came over the loud speaker system. "Let's all give a great big round of applause for our volunteer. What a trouper!"

Gordon and Alan were laughing and clapping as they headed into the street toward their brother. Virgil was still lying on his back when they reached him, and he glared at Gordon. "I can't believe you were laughing at me, you jerk."

He allowed Alan to help him to his feet. "You could have given me a clue here, you know. Talk about feeling stupid. I didn't know what the heck I was doing and for a minute there I thought I'd really been shot! Those paint balls hurt!"

"My brother the control freak," Gordon grinned, shaking his head as he watched Virgil rubbed his fingers on the red paint in the middle of his chest where he'd been nailed by the 'gunslinger.' "Did you forget the entire purpose of this exercise, put you in a position where you didn't know what was going to go down, so you could practice improvisation? What good would it have done to tell you exactly what was going to happen ahead of time? Besides," he finished with a smirk, "I hear the bruises go away after a few days…a week at the outside."

Virgil fixed him with a very good approximation of the narrowed, snake eyed stare he'd perfected on McGee. "Okay, smartass," he said, trying very hard to keep a straight face. "You think you've seen "fish out of water?" You just wait until you see what I'm gonna come up with for _you_."

He turned on his heel – cowboy boots, he discovered, were very good at doing that – and stalked off down the street.

Gordon had the good grace to swallow, just a little.

_The End_


End file.
